


Assent

by pettiot



Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [16]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bondage, Escape, Forced Oral Sex, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Revenge, Urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23155252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: They came when Fenris was on his knees.
Relationships: Fenris/M!Hawke
Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619464
Kudos: 4





	Assent

They came when Fenris was on his knees, Hawke's cock curving into his throat. Fast and well trained, they put Fenris down at the commencement of the fight, a mocking cloud, the targeted stones. He heard Hawke's shout and could not respond.

An oddly merciful move to spare him, Fenris thought on awakening, but an unfamiliar laugh cut his grogginess as a knife. He pushed his will through the brands, ready to rip his substance through the bonds spreading him against the wall.

A muffled protest.

The realisation of a warm pressure against, over his groin. What, who it was.

Panicking, a cold sweat. Fenris let the lyrium die before his rage had even warmed. Fractured, his breath shallow. His vision blurred at the edges in shock at what he had nearly done. It would kill Hawke to phase through him.

The metal band around Fenris' waist had been made for a thinner captive, hurtfully tight as he gasped. His breath tangled in his throat. He could still taste Hawke.

Hawke could feel him panicking. Of course Hawke could feel it. The sweaty forehead pressed against his abdomen, firmer. Fenris looked down. Knotted up like a package, Hawke's shoulders trembled, beading sweat. The beard prickled intimately.

How had they known? Neutralise with proximity.

The panic did not fade. Building to a dull, throbbing, and entirely fatalistic sense of dread. Who else would know? The blackness at the edge of his vision sparkled and spread.

But an elf stepped into view, no magister, chin tilted in bright-eyed interest and face bare. Another elf, then a human; more of them, in leather, showing assorted damage. Hawke had not gone without a fight.

'Ah, those eyes. Worry not, brother. There is no especial prize for your humiliation, your death will be quick and merciful. But this one.’ A twitch of the mouth, wry and cruel. The boot planted between Hawke’s shoulders and pushed him deeper. ‘He broke a contract.’

Only cowards are cruel. Fenris had seen the eyes of a magister and knew the twisted curiosity. How much skin can we remove before a person dies; how many feathers can a living bird tolerate being plucked from the root; how much humiliation does it take to break you—

'Your performance before was inspirational,' a gesture at the package. 'And I am thinking in this city perhaps you have not been on this end of your lord before, yes? So limited, these Hightown masters and their understanding of pleasure. Please, be welcome to enjoy his humiliation while it lasts.'

They thought he was a servant. At some point they would release them, thinking him without skill. Fenris gulped and twitched.

'I will kill you for this.'

He was helpless to stop the words. Hawke— groaned. His disappointment stung. But surely he knew Fenris was no tactician. His skin flamed and chilled in embarrassment.

The elf rolled his eyes, no sign of fear or belief. Chuckles from the others. One moved forward and spat on Hawke, the most heavily wounded, gobbet bubbling across the knots of spine. Then rubbed it in, leather-clad knuckles, fingers drifting lower. Out of view. Fenris felt Hawke flinch.

Fenris opened his mouth to shout. Wondered why. Impotence compelled him to silence.

He hung his head.

‘Ah, you want to watch? Or does he disgust you so you cannot even arouse for him?’

A snort, the elf tossing a comment to his comrades. ‘This city makes them weak.’

‘Weakness is one way to survive,’ the first elf, casual.

‘Perhaps not our way. Certainly did not serve Nuncio well.’

A laugh. The elf’s arm wrenched, hard.

The breath went out of Hawke in an angry rush, and the elf’s shoulder continued to roll and twist with his thrust. The other arm was broken, bound expertly, and did little to add awkwardness to the elf’s motion as he sank to one knee for a better angle. A forceful shove.

A grunt. Fenris saw the colour burn, mottling across pale shoulder, the neck, the fine rims of ears. Hawke closed his eyes. He rocked into Fenris, gagging, not of his volition. Rhythmic motion.

The back was straight, proud, the spine a perfect channel for the fat droplets of sweat now falling. The elf’s face was pale beneath the tan, a fever in the eyes. More than cruelty.

‘For Nuncio—’

Another wrench. Hawke gasped.

‘Segundo.’ The first elf, sharply, almost a reprimand. And it was not a name, Fenris knew. A title. ‘Do not bleed him again.’

The feverish elf pulled out and away, hurtfully, from the heat gusting against Fenris’ groin. Spit slicked cold along his balls. The elf pinched Fenris' chin with sticky fingers.

‘I want to see when this one waters him.’

‘There will be time enough later, when our associate arrives. Come.’

A quiet mimicry. ‘Come. Yes, you should, brother.’ The elf wiped his hand in Fenris’ hair lovingly, fisted the strands, then cracked his head back against the wall.

Reeling. What they had used to incapacitate him left him with hurt, a stiff neck. Cloying nausea.

When his vision cleared, just, he saw they had been abandoned.

In the dark.

No. Near dark, only. He could see Hawke's paleness, the line of light under the door, through the banded slats. His panic did not ease.

The numb, protective thoughtlessness constantly threatened to break down and leave him gibbering. The room was windowless, solid stone, raw along one wall. Below Darktown. The door banded with rusted metal, but the steel and leather compressing Hawke into himself was sturdy, impeccably tended. Fenris could see, feel, the metal fingers forcing the lips and teeth wide. Hawke's tongue heaved and pressed against his shaft.

'No—'

Hawke was panting too, florid and wet after the rough handling. It made Fenris aware he himself was scarcely breathing, a band of pain around his chest, so shallow and fast. Nose bent against Fenris' abdomen, tied into himself, Hawke was still having less trouble keeping his breath steady. The pulse flickering between his ribs.

Fenris avoided Hawke's eyes. Could see them rolling, trying to turn upwards. No. Felt the shame that Hawke must be feeling, doubled, such a sharp twisting shame a single breathless sob escaped him, dry and wretched.

Breath snorted. The tongue moved again, a deliberate curl. A wave of spit leaking. A dry, loud swallow.

'Stop. Hawke, stop—'

Fenris felt himself thicken, his breath deepening, unsteadily. A different threat than the haze on his periphery.

Hawke tilted his head, encouraged.

'I cannot— Do not do this to me, Hawke. '

Hawke did this to him. Mechanical, at the least.

Long, gulping breaths before Fenris could speak again.

‘Stop.’

Hawke did not stop. Hawke rolled his skull in the small circles the bindings allowed him, until the head nudged into and against the smooth skin of his throat, tongue flattened against the undercurve of the shaft. Fenris felt himself jerk at the pleasure of knowledge more than sensation, his breath deepening into a long groan. That hurt Hawke, from the sound, the heave spreading his ribs. Choking. But Hawke pushed closer, the metal fingers spreading his jaw pinching, digging in, stark silver against the beard.

 _He insists._ Fenris wanted to surrender. Closed his eyes and thought about the prickle of beard, the sounds that could not be smothered behind lips that could not be closed.

Without suction, without thrust, it would take a long time for him to come. _Try harder._ His erection was strong, then faltering as the situation reasserted itself, each time Hawke making a sound almost like a whimper, increasingly irritated. _I disappoint him in so many ways._

Even pulling back to the furthermost point the restraints allowed him, Fenris could feel his length still pressed against the back of the tongue. Hawke's throat would be raw after so long, Fenris knew. The intimate knowledge was a distant memory, falling like an apple from a tree.

_Why, why—_

Hawke was almost sobbing, angrily. _Just come. Stop this game. End it_. Unwilling to open his eyes even as the small pleasure lifted him, and dropped him again, lower than before.

After, Hawke moved his face against him. Nuzzling. Swallows, awkward and loud. Dripping, where he had not been able to swallow.

Lips cracked when he tried to speak. _It is done now. Leave it._ 'Why did you—'

Hawke pushed, the pressure against him increasing. Now, when Fenris wanted to meet his eyes, Hawke kept his own closed.

'I'm sorry I failed you.'

An angry sibilant. Stop, Fenris thought it must be. Or perhaps shut up.

'They think I am a servant. When they release us I will—'

A louder protest, humid air. One eye opened, an angry glare from under sweat-limp hair. A headshake, as wide as Hawke could make it.

'You think they are—' listening.

The eye rolled. Obviously.

A bubbling hysteria. Fenris clamped on it, unsure if he would break.

Time passed.

He dozed interminably, head jerking on the restraints. Time measured through the increase of pain and no other changing condition, but the dryness of Hawke’s mouth.

Fenris chose to concentrate on the ache of his wrists. A tolerable pain. On the tips of his toes, hours after his shoulders screamed for relief, long enough to thirst madly, for his bladder to fill and hurt with restraint, pressed against the too-small band around his belly, for his calves to cramp and legs tremble. And think of Hawke, mouth dry as sand, the tongue as foreign an object as his own prick, breath shallow and uneven, except not in panic.

In, out. His breath, Hawke's breath, whistling through the compressed nose. Fenris breathed and tried to will Hawke to breathe with him. Dozed again.

Eventually Hawke stopped sweating.

The forehead dry as paper against his stomach. Worrying. Fenris' own thirst, as worrying. The cramping went beyond pain and into numbness, tingling, fading. His legs buckled unexpectedly, driving him further into Hawke's throat, the pain in his shoulders making him cry out. Crucified against the wall. His ribs ached to lift with each breath.

When his bladder gave out, he almost did not notice.

He could not. He could not stop. It felt so good after so long, one brief unravelling sensation of relief amidst the restraint.

Hawke leaked. Moaned. Then leaned forward into him, taking him deeper, the forehead rocking against his hurting belly, side to side. The eye rolled, reddened and sore, but not hateful. That love, and that anger. A surprising emotion, which was not shame or mortification, euphoric. There was no dripping or gulping swallows. Into his throat, not a drop spilled. No resistance. A dark euphoria. _I will do this to him again._

Then it was over, and the pleasure of release faded into a numbed, inarticulate shock.

Then even that faded into time, a mindless blur.

They could have been abandoned. Forgotten. Hawke was a still weight against him. Through the beginning haze of a thirst induced hallucination, Fenris thought he heard footsteps, the bars on the door scraping open, but he thought he heard this time and again with no change when he opened his eyes. He tested delicately, like a loose tooth, the thought they would starve and die like this. Strange tangled skeletons they would make.

Unreal, when he opened his eyes to find the flock of Crows in the room again. A distant, tittering mockery, at the lack of mess, the correct conclusion as to the reason. Pinching fingers unbound them, if not cruel ones, and a bucket of water to sluice and shock.

Fenris let the lyrium lift him beyond himself, where muscle failed and nerves screamed the lyrium held firm, patterns of death at his fingertips, the spray of blood across the walls, but it was not his blood, or Hawke's blood, and that was the only blood that mattered.

In the aftermath, he came to himself to find Hawke half-unbound, slumped against the wall, eyes lidded heavily with the whites only showing. The gag still spread his mouth wide. Lips crusted and white, but for the blood at the corners.

Fenris righted the lamp, shaking. A second bucket of water was waiting. He drank, then approached. Limping, needing to drag the bucket. Just as helplessly, wet his hand, and moved fingers past the teeth that could not close.

Gently, disbelieving himself, Fenris cupped his free hand behind the head and tilted it forward.

_Deeper—_

Hawke's throat contracted. Lids fluttered, hand lifting, jerking in panic. His eyes saw, and suddenly warmed. Moving weakly for the clasps to the gag. With the metal gone, he could smile around Fenris' fingers, however warped. So he smiled around Fenris' fingers, and reached for him.

The eyes shone wet at the corners.

Fenris pulled away. Running. Stopping in his retreat only at the faint rasp.

'More.'

But of course, Hawke would mean the water.

'It will be all right.' Between gulps, held in his cupped and shaking hands. 'It's over. We can be out of here. You are all right. I can— We can.'

Hawke clung to his wrists and let him babble, then kissed him, rough as salt.

* * *

They pieced together sufficient gear from the dead assassins for modesty. Thank the one broadly shouldered human for dying so neatly, or Hawke would have bulged at the seams.

They were stopped once, more thugs. More Crows. Fenris acted without pause, but went grey as soon as the lyrium faded. So much for warrior stamina. They couldn't have been here longer than a day and a half at the most. _Or he would have—_

When they disgorged to the clear night air, Hawke licked cracked, alien lips and said, 'Come home with me.'

Fenris hesitated, looking at the floor. His face was never blank, never hard to read. Only hard to work out why. The street forked to their separate homes. Fenris never liked being there in the morning. Farewells expressed with infinite politeness at midnight.

Something burned in Hawke's chest, just under his ribs. Tasted like bile. 'Please.' Try to sound pleading, sound scathing instead. Hawke grimaced, which hurt his mouth.

They went the back way regardless, late enough to find the household asleep.

A painful wait for the boiler to heat, while Hawke abused the tooth powder, sipped the watered wine Fenris put in his hands, then raided his mother's comfits.

Water pummelled like a fist. So loud in a hollow wooden tub, Hawke wondered that no one woke. Hypnotic, watching it. Finding little distraction in pacing, poking at the dried flowers, the linen closet, Fenris finally stripped with no sign of selfconsciousness and wrapped a towel around his waist. Dark skin and white fabric. Hawke tried not to look, then couldn't not look, as hypnotic as the water.

Fenris coughed away the pertinent silence. Brought a robe and more towels from the closet, and assisted with stripping the stolen gear, hands brisk in purpose. Then hanging, awkwardly, afterwards.

A surge of fondness. Little weapon. _Never know what to do unless you're doing it._

'What do you want—'

'Throw it away.'

Fenris hovered until Hawke climbed into the bath, then left to lose the stolen gear somewhere. Hawke didn't care. He let himself float, heat wakening his limbs, soothing the dragging weakness. Had it really been that bad? _It seems so long ago. Hurt more than anything, being unable to move. Now I can't even remember if it was real._

Using the pat of his mother's perfumed soap, he washed himself thoroughly, with slow, even strokes. Even between the toes, and behind the ears, lathering the beard and letting the milk disperse as he sank, stopping with just his nose clear of the water, breath making patterns in the foam. Vaguely proud he had not scrubbed like a lunatic. It had been foul, but it was over and done with. _No Crow touches me like that. I can get Isabela on her so-called friend. Zevran owes me for taking this—bullshit, all for him._

Hawke used the toothpowder again, talc to the underarms, a dusting between the breasts, put on the robe Fenris had laid out for him. Navy again. _Close to black, I suppose. I should test that. Buy a black one and see if he favours it on me._

His shoulders grated as he shrugged to settle the heavy fabric, tendons momentarily shrill.

He suddenly lost momentum when it came to tying the robe closed, silk sliding through his fingers.

The frustration made his eyes sting. Stupid. Fine. Leave it open. No one to appreciate the view anyway.

Stroking the flat of his belly, the hair on his thighs. Still ridged where he'd been bound, bruising deeply. His hand skirted that territory, settled on his cock instead. Lax and long from the hot water, his flesh tingled— wanted to thicken. Not exactly limp. Comforting, to touch himself. Could wank himself to sleep.

Hawke curled in the windowseat and waited for Fenris to return. Dozing lightly, he startled at the splash, catching a flash of skinny backside before Fenris sat. Same bathwater. It would never occur to the elf to have changed it, even with plumbing.

Fenris washed his hair twice. Hawke noticed that, even picking through his mother's comfits for the fennel ones. _Does he know?_ Noticed, then, how Fenris kept his face out of the water, even arching back and neck so he could dip his hair and ears, knees and peaking nipples poking through the soapy scum.

The big eyes snapped opened, startled. A lyrium pulse. 'Hawke—'

'Shh.' Caught under his knees, the robe was wicking spilled water. Lukewarm, at best. Hawke moved his fingers through the wet white hair, pulling the head back. Fenris' mouth opened under his. He never knew what to do with his tongue. All press and sloppiness, he tried every time for something suave and experienced, a brief, amusing battle. But after the token effort, Fenris always just opened, letting Hawke into him, plunder him. The vulnerability was arousing.

The half-melted sweet moved between them. When it went too far, Hawke followed, mouth wide and lips sealing over Fenris' smaller mouth, tongue chasing.

Fenris pushed him away, coughing. Then spat the comfit and glared.

'What? It was an accident. I'm not trying to kill you.'

Fenris did not laugh with him. He climbed out of the bath and faced the corner, towelling vigorously. Over the shoulder. 'If you want to go to bed, I will clean in here.'

'Why? So my mother doesn't get the vapours at the sight of our atrocious bathing habits? Too late for that. Regardless, I have servants.' A pause, noting the tight muscle between Fenris' shoulders. 'Real servants.'

'If you want to—'

Hawke silenced him with a finger, laid across the lips. Sliding close, an arm around the narrow waist, worming beneath the rolled rim of towel. Fenris held the edge with his hands when Hawke loosed the knot and tried to tug the sheet to fall.

'You should eat.' Reluctantly, 'We should eat. More than spiced sugars.'

'Come to bed with me. I'll ring for Bodahn, he can make a platter. Bread and cheese, pickle—might have some meat.'

'Broth.'

'At this time of night? He'd have to make it from scratch.'

'The purpose of having a servant, Hawke, is that the inconvenience of your necessity is theirs to manage.'

'The only one being inconvenienced here is me,' as Fenris continued to foil his attempts to remove the towel. Giving up, Hawke settled his hand over the bulge, cupped, gently. So much warmer than the rest of Fenris, wet heat through the towel. His prick thickened and lifted, yearning for its covered match. 'Don't ever tell me no.'

Some wide, depthless shock. Hurt. Then a rising anger, and that, Hawke knew how to handle better than the grief, set himself to fight.

But Fenris said, 'I swear, Hawke, I will find and kill any who had a hand in this.'

'Why? Why? Because I can't kill them myself? I can. I killed the fucking Arishok, Fenris. If you want to play guarddog, I'd prefer to have you on all fours.'

His momentum left him, spiralling confusion, words scattering behind his eyes. Anxiety thick in his chest, not quite killing the erection, only asserting a different, itching need. He could not find a thought to follow, a thing to say, as Fenris knotted the robe loosely around his waist and nudged him from the bathroom.

The floorboards always creaked.

Leather through a buckle. Who knew buckling leather had a sound. He couldn't remember how many straps that thing had had. Metal bars and leather buckles. Bruises in stripes across his body.

The bedroom was a fist to the belly.

Broken lamps, wax and oil crusting the rugs. The rip in the mattress like an open mouth, puking filling. Feathers everywhere from the shredded pillows. One curtain fallen. An incongruous pile of folded clothes on the chair. Armour stand, sword, his and Fenris', untouched. Two hollow men standing in the corner. His heart yammered and screamed.

Did anyone even know we were gone?

Fenris disappeared for months at a time. Bodahn had years since stopped asking Hawke's movements, managing the mail with no promise of return dates.

_Alone._

Blood on the floor, where Fenris had knelt, expressionless, before falling boneless. Blood in Hawke's mouth. He had thought Fenris dead, wretched with grief through all they had done to him in that first hour. All tangled with horror at the thought of what a flock of depraved assassins could have intended by dragging a dead elf along, after what they had done. The unbelievable relief when the dick pushed into his mouth had been warm.

'We can't stay in here,' Fenris said, flatly.

Hawke wanted to kiss his feet. No. Oh, no. A bad want.

A stalk, not hesitant. To the window. Fenris stared out. 'They were watching us.'

The curtains, framing a light-burned sky, pulled back by Hawke's desire. A vague excitement at having cold night air and moonlight as audience. If he left it to Fenris, sex would be undertaken in the dark, under covers, shuttered and barred. Hawke had fantasised about fucking him in front of a crowd before. _No. You can't touch him. He's mine. Watch, and envy us everything._

Ashes in his mouth. See what wishes begot?

More than ashes.

Think about something else.

Hawke counted every loop of rug against his feet. When he looked up, the room was flat, a painting. _Absence of Agreement._ Varric would call it pretentious. Isabela would deface it. Anders would miss the point. Merrill would understand it. Merrill always understood. It's just no one understands Merrill. _Only me. She's told me so._

Incapable of outreach, Hawke picked up the chair next to him and threw it into the wall.

Fenris spun from the bureau, potion in hand, lyrium blazing. He startled not at the lack of assassins, but at something he saw in Hawke's face. Blood sinking, skin paling, face and neck and chest. He approached quickly.

'Hawke.'

'Where are we supposed to sleep.'

Flatly, and too loud.

Fenris led him to Leandra's room.

Sitting on the dusty bed, a thread snapped. Not the one he'd expected. A swamp of euphoria flooded to his waist. Ah. That's it, then. So ridiculous this can only be a dream. Bullshit like this doesn't happen to champions. People who kill warlords and save cities from forcible conversion don't get raped by bitpart thugs. A midnight delusion.

This was not his story, therefore it was all right.

Fenris sat next to him and wrapped his fingers around a cool smoothness. 'Potion, Hawke, for your mouth. It hurts me to look at it.'

 _So don't look, you fuck_. 'I'm fine.'

Helplessly. So many things, Fenris was helpless with. Hawke felt that rising swamp again, delight at another's inability. His emotions were backwards. 'Yes. But the flesh differs. Please take it.'

'I don't want to drink. My throat hurts.'

A flinch. Grim victory. _I should tell him about my arse. Anoint me inwardly, serah. With your cock._

'More reason why you should drink.'

'I'll drink it. Either from your dick or from your mouth.'

Someone else would have told him to stop being a fool. Fenris simply considered, then sipped, waited, a bead of wetness along the seam of his lips.

Compelling, to bend and lap. The flesh was warm, potion cool, always cool, astringent. Hawke felt his lips smoothing, the chap and cracks itching to seal. The rasping feeling at the back of his throat gone. He licked the drops, Fenris' mouth open. The return of normal sensation itched. Enough kissing, and Fenris' hand rose, smoothing through the beard.

Hawke turned his head and mouthed the fingers.

Wrenched away as if scalded, Fenris uncoiling, halfway across the room before Hawke laughed, mocking.

'You are such a prude.'

'Hawke,' but it was deep, and dark, and the towel was tented. Surreal. Fenris stared at him with something alien in the eyes. Now this, this expression was unreadable, want and darkness and anger, cold as suns. Hawke's breath caught in his throat, something like lust in his belly. His cock twitched, which made his arse tighten, which made him remember, and he realised. Not lust. Fear.

Fenris was afraid, too.

Helplessly, 'Not in your mother's bed.'

Hawke started to laugh, and was lost along the way. He did not have to ask. Fenris brought him to his side, under the covers. Hawke clawed away the robe, tangled in sheets which Fenris straightened. Lamps dimmed. In the dark, shutters closed, steady silence. Inches of space between them, with Fenris's knuckles pressed against his, and their knees touching.

The pillows still smelled of Leandra.

'Why did you—'

Gentle, small. Ashamed. _I did this to him. Me, not them._

'I don't know, Fenris. I don't bloody know. I thought. It was hurting, everything was hurting, and I could hear you panicking and didn't know what I'd do if you fainted.' _Again. Left me again, left me alone_. 'I wanted to...be somewhere else, and take you with me. No, I wasn't even thinking that much. It was there, in my mouth. Had to do something. Something better than, fearing—'

Fenris did not shush. Just stroked his hair. Even that was so startling Hawke closed his eyes. Fenris was never gentle.

'I am that pathetic to you now?'

A sharp breath in the dark. The hand removed itself.

'Your back was so straight.' Thickly. 'Proud. I thought...'

Hawke turned his face into the pillow. _Liar. Flatterer. You only ever say what you think I want to hear._

His mother would hate this. _Us in her bed._ But at least she would know something was wrong immediately. _She'd send you away with her lethal politeness; she'd curl in the space you left and would stroke my hair just like that, and ask me what was wrong. Ask me if you had done something to me; she minded you, but loved me. No, Fenris did nothing to me, mother. Fenris did nothing. Just lay there, world's most useless bodyguard, unconscious, while five Antivan assassins took turns on me like a bloody horse. Tied me up to think about how much more humiliating it was going to get._ And then it wasn't even that bad. Hadn't even needed to worry at all. Pathetic. _Please don't let Fenris hear me snivel._

'I thought you were dead.' Not strained, not at all.

'I am not dead.'

Hawke relaxed.

'You can...touch my hair again.' _Please._

A shuddering breath. 'Yes, Hawke.'

Then the mattress shifted, and lean heat pressed against him, the knees between his. A better tangle, without metal bits and chokes. Breath against his hair, lips against his forehead. The arms around him. The deep, solid heartbeat.

'I think I'm hungry.'

'It is almost morning. Tomorrow.'

Tiredly, 'All right.'


End file.
